The Ways of War
by Kayle Storm
Summary: Marth's resolve is shaken when he faces the true horrors of war. My first fanfic. Reviews appreciated.


**This is my first foray into the world of fanfics, but I feel that I did a fairly decent job for a first timer. I know the beginning of this one needs a bit of work, but overall I think it turned out fine. Reviews would be great, but no flaming!**

**-Kayle**

* * *

The battle was in full swing. To his left, Marth could see Cain, Abel and Jagen, their horses at full gallop, charging a small group of swordsmen. To his right, Draug was plowing through the enemy cavalry, their swords and lances glancing off of his heavy armor.

As Marth moved forward, Navarre stepped up beside him, sword drawn. The sun glinted off the bloody metal as the myrmidon whirled the razor sharp blade through the air. "Not a bad fight... but I've seen better." The swordsman gestured forward with his blade. "Look sharp, prince. We have company." Marth drew his rapier and looked to where his comrade was pointing. Two enemy fighters were coming at the duo at a dead run, their axes held above their heads. "I'll take left if you'll take right," Navarre said as he brushed his long hair back.

Marth nodded. "Fine by me." The duo let the fighters close the distance, then went to work.

Navarre side stepped what would have been a bone crushing blow from his opponent, then darted his blade up to his target's throat. Blood sprayed out of the wound. Navarre whipped his sword up again, and the fighter's headless body fell to the ground.

Marth's opponent swung his axe horizontally, trying to catch the prince in the ribs or chest. Marth stepped back, away from the blow, then stabbed his rapier forward. The thin blade slid upward through the axeman's ribs and into his heart. Marth withdrew his bloody blade, then jumped backward as the body fell to the ground. The prince cleaned his blade on the dew-wet grass, then sheathed it, his hands shaking a bit from the rush of battle. A sense of elation filled the young prince, a sense of accomplishment. Marth looked down at his vanquished foe for the first time, and bile suddenly rose in his throat.

The fighter was young, probably younger than Marth, judging by his boyish features. His dead face bore a look of absolute terror, the kind of terror achieved only by those who know that they are going to die. Marth covered his eyes with one hand and took a deep breath, fighting his revulsion. Suddenly, he heard Navarre snort and looked up at the warrior.

The myrmidon was standing over his dead opponent. He snorted again, then spat on the body. Marth's sense of revulsion grew.

"Wh-why'd you do that?" Navarre glanced up at the prince, then shrugged. He bent down and pulled up a tuft of wet grass and began wiping his blade clean with it.

"He was my enemy, and he did not match my skill. Therefore, he does not deserve my respect." The warrior eyed his blade, seeking out the last few bits of gore on it's surface, then sheathed the weapon. "If he could have matched my skill, I would not have done it. But he is not worthy of my respect." Navarre looked at the two dead fighters. "They sealed their fate the moment they took up arms against us." The warrior turned and strode back across the battlefield, which had grown almost completely silent. The battle was over.

********

Later, back at the campsite, Marth sat and pondered Navarre's words. Part of him believed what the myrmidon had said. The young fighter had been his enemy. He, Marth, had acted in defense. He had killed an enemy in fair combat, nothing more and nothing less.

Marth sighed and ran his hand through his dark hair. Yes, the fighter had been his enemy, and yes, if he hadn't fought he would have probably died. But that face... that young face... it just hovered in front of him, with it's terrified eyes. The prince tapped his sheathed rapier against his thigh. Why did he have to kill? Why did anyone have to kill? The prince thought back to the days after his kingdom had been taken from him. His family was killed or captured, his kingdom was left in ruins, many of his soldiers and subjects had been killed. Then, he had felt rage, had wanted revenge. He had wanted to kill then, but... Now it was different. Why was the world like this?

Marth wiped a tear from his eye, before it could fall, and stood up. The sun was going down, and the yellow and orange rays bathed the small valley they were camped in in an almost surreal light. Across the camp, Gordin was practicing his archery on a cloth dummy stuffed with straw. Caeda was busy pulling grass burrs out of her pegasus' tail and mane. Navarre sat a little ways away from the others, working a whetstone down his blade. The rasp of stone on metal seemed loud and out of place in the campsite, a reminder of a battle long done with. The prince walked over to the swordsman and sat down on a stump across from him.

"Y'know, if you sharpen a blade too much, it'll snap when you hit something hard in combat." Navarre looked up briefly, then went back to honing his blade.

"Flesh is not hard, prince. If you know where to aim, a blade will stay sharp so long as the wielder's hand is steady." The myrmidon turned his dark eyes from the blade to Marth, just for a second, then went back to his sword. "But with that oversized needle you call a sword, I suppose it does not matter if you hit armor or bone. One is as easily pierced as the other." The whetstone rasped down the blade again. The sound grated on Marth's nerves, and he sighed.

"Navarre, why do you love fighting so much?" The warrior looked at Marth questioningly. "I mean, when I see you in battle, you seem like a different person, like you finally found something you can enjoy. I don't mean to offend, but when you're in the camp with the rest of us, you keep to yourself and hardly leave your tent. But when enemies approach, you're one of the first outside, ready to fight, and with a smile on your face. Why?"

Navarre shrugged and ran the whetstone down his blade yet again. "War is my job, my native tongue, if you will excuse the metaphor. I have been paid to fight since I was old enough to wield a blade. I strive to be the best at everything I do, and fighting is just one of the things I do. I like to fight because I like knowing that I am faster, stronger and smarter than my opponent. Does that answer your question, prince?"

Marth searched for an answer. "I suppose. Yes, I guess it does."

Navarre studied the prince for a moment. "On the battlefield is where I belong, where I live. My pride and my sense of honor rest on my blade. Not everyone is like me, prince. There are few who are like me, and fewer who would wish to be like me. Perhaps that answers the question you wish to ask." He examined his blade. "Now, I don't mean to be rude, but I must finish with my blade." Marth nodded and stood to leave. The sun was gone from the horizon, and the moon shone in the darkened sky.

"Right. Sorry to disturb you." Navarre just nodded and resumed his work. As Marth left, Caeda approached the myrmidon.

"What was that all about? Is something wrong?" The pegasus knight idly fiddled with the grooming brush she had been using on her mount. "Is he okay?"

Navarre sighed and set down his whetstone. He looked up at the starry sky in exasperation. "Can I not get a little time alone with my blade?"

Caeda rolled her eyes. "Lighten up a little, Navarre. You treat that sword like it was your kid or wife or something." The myrmidon glared at her. She crossed her arms defiantly. "I'm not leaving till you tell me what's going on."

Navarre grunted. "Fine. The prince is having trouble accepting what he must to on the battlefield. He feels confused and lost, and feels like the world is too evil for peaceful men to live in." Navarre's hand slipped and his whetstone fell to the ground.

Caeda reached down and picked it up for him. "Will he be okay?"

Navarre accepted the whetstone from her with a nod of thanks. "I believe so. He will make the choice he feels is right, though I do not know what choice that may be." The myrmidon sighed. "I made that choice long ago, and I do not regret it. Or, at least I didn't until now. I chose to be a warrior, one who lives by the blade, and will someday die by the blade. I pray the prince does not choose like I did." As if realizing what he'd said, the swordsman cleared his throat. "Now, go away. I have things to do."

Caeda rubbed her temples. "Should I try to help, or... Oh, never mind. I know the answer to that." She shook her head. "Men and their pride..." The young knight returned to grooming her steed.

**********

Later that night, the flap to Marth's tent opened. The prince crept out, a shovel resting on his shoulder. He silently strode out of camp, dodging around Jagen, who was on watch, and returned to the battlefield. The whole place still stank of blood, and in the darkness it took the prince a while to find the spot he was looking for. Finally finding the body of the fighter he had killed, Marth began to dig a grave for the young man.

From a distance, Navarre watched the prince's progress with a smile. The myrmidon ran his hand along his sheathed blade, and a single tear fell and struck the black leather of the sheath.


End file.
